"I'd much rather have the nails," cried Polly, "oh, much rather,
Jasper."
"Well, we'll see what father is going to let us do," said Jasper.
"Wasn't that fun snowballing—just think—in July," cried Polly, craning her neck to look back down the path toward the Riffelberg station.
"Did you pick up some of that snow?" asked Adela.
"Didn't we, though!" exclaimed Jasper. "I got quite a good bit in my fist."
"My ball was such a little bit of a one," mourned Polly; "I scraped up all I could, but it wasn't much."
"Well, it did good execution," said Tom; "I got it in my eye."
"Oh, did it hurt you?" cried Polly, in distress, running across the path to walk by his side.
"Not a bit," said Tom. "I tried to find some to pay you back, and then we had to fly for the cars."
The plain, quiet face under the English bonnet turned to Mrs. Fisher as they walked up the path together. "I cannot begin to tell you what gratitude I am under to you," said Tom's mother, "and to all of you. When I think of my father, I am full of thankfulness. When I look at my boy, the goodness of God just overcomes me in leading me to your party. May I tell you of ourselves some time, when a good opportunity offers for a quiet talk?"